Coming with the daffodils and dying with the roses,
Wafted by the zephyr's wing athwart the spaces high,
Lurking in the flower's bloom or e'er its breast uncloses,
Reeling with sweet draughts of scent, and light, and deep blue sky;
Shaking wide its dusty wings and like the breezes breasting
Burdenless and innocent the sky's eternal steep: --
Thus doth fare the butterfly like hope that never resting,
Rifles all but cannot quench desire that ever questing,
Bears it home to heaven again for lasting joy and deep.